by David Wood
“And to think they wanted to send Stefan,” he said to no one in particular. Stefan was good, there was no doubt, but Angelo’s team, of which Antonio was a member, was good as well. If only their superiors would let go of their foolish attachment to Stefan. Antonio hated being underestimated.
He leaned against the rail and admired their speedboat. It was a sleek model with a low profile and a powerful but nearly silent engine. The hull was painted a swirl of blues and greens, allowing it to blend in with the sea. A bulletproof, green-tinted windshield swept back in a tight curve. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship.
A loud splash from the stern drew his attention. He looked back but saw nothing. A porpoise, perhaps? He scanned the horizon. The blue-green waters were choppy today, and devoid of any crafts other than their own and the one they now controlled. There had not been any since they had taken control of the boat. He shrugged and dug out his lighter.
Antonio thumbed the lighter and raised it only to freeze. It suddenly occurred to him that when he had looked to the stern it had been empty. Had not Vincent been sitting there just a minute ago? Surely, he would not fall in. It seemed a bit strange. Perhaps his comrade was in the bow with Louie.
Antonio lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply and blew a cloud of smoke into the air. He made the short walk to the ship’s bow, skirting the exterior of the cabin and stopped short. The bow was empty as well. His jaw fell and the burning cigarette dropped to the deck.
He looked around. Where had they gone? He needed to tell Angelo. He hurried to the cabin door but the sound of Angelo’s voice, raised in anger, gave him pause. He needed to at least check the situation out before reporting to his boss that half of their team was missing. He did not want to think about delivering such a message. Angelo’s was a prodigious temper.
Perhaps they were in the cabin. He wanted to check, but that would risk incurring his leader’s wrath. He thought for a minute. No, they could not be in the cabin. He would have seen or heard at least one of them pass by. Something was very strange here. He turned a complete circle, reassuring himself that there was nothing on the horizon. There had to be an explanation. Rifle firmly in his grip, he walked quickly to the stern where he had last seen Vincent. He peered over the rail and saw nothing. He turned back toward the bow of the ship and scanned the entire deck. Where were they?
A cold, wet hand clamped down hard across his mouth, and he felt himself yanked backward. Frantically, he dropped his weapon and grabbed for the railing, trying to prevent himself from tumbling into the sea. A hot, searing pain shot through his throat, and consciousness fled as he fell into the cold, dead arms of the sea.
Bones worked furiously to free his wrists. On the other side of the cabin, Angelo had duct taped Corey into a chair and had begun his questioning. Corey was holding out, denying that they were after anything other than whatever could be salvaged from the Dourado. Angelo stood, cursing loudly and shouting.
“You are lying to me!” he cried, shaking his fist in the crewman’s face. “You know it, I know it, and your soon-to-be-dead Indian friend knows it as well.” He drew an automatic pistol from an ankle holster and aimed it at one of Corey’s fleshy white thighs. “I warned you. Perhaps I can impress upon you just how serious I am.”
“No!” Bones shouted, thrashing around and struggling to work free of his bonds. “Leave him alone!”
Angelo turned toward him, smirked, then returned his attention to Corey. As he turned, something caught his eye, and he looked to the deck with an expression of disbelief on his face. He grunted in surprise, then seemed to regain his composure, and leveled his pistol toward some unseen target.
Willis! Bones had almost reached Angelo’s side. Rolling onto his back, he raised his feet, still bound together, and struck with both heels, driving them into the side of Angelo’s knee.
There was a loud pop, and Angelo cried out in pain as his knee buckled under the force of Bones’ kick. His arm flew up, and his shot went through the ceiling as a blue and black blur hurtled through the cabin door, bowling him over.
Willis, clad in his wetsuit, rode Angelo to the floor. He held the man’s right wrist with his left hand. He clutched a dive knife in his right. A faint smear of blood, apparently not his own, stained the chest of his blue neoprene suit.
Angelo frantically fired off a shot that flew harmlessly through the cabin roof. He held Willis’ thick ebony wrist, struggling to keep the stronger man from bringing the knife down on him. He shifted under the man’s weight and brought his left knee up hard between Willis’ legs.
The former SEAL grunted. Bones saw his friend’s face contort in pain. His grip slipped ever so slightly on Angelo’s gun hand, and his knife ceased its steady downward descent. Bones twisted and contorted, and finally succeeded in freeing one wrist. There was no time to loosen the bonds that held his ankles. He pushed himself up to his feet and jumped.
Javelin had been his sport in high school, but his standing long jump hadn’t been too bad. He came down feet-first with his full weight on Angelo’s face, hearing the satisfying crunch of cheekbones snapping, and the squeal of pain that leaked from the man’s ruined face. The squeal turned to a shriek as Willis buried his knife in Angelo’s chest.
Their former captor’s struggles ceased as the life drained from his body along with his blood, bright red on the stark white cabin floor. Willis lurched to his feet and cut the ropes from Bones’ legs, then set about freeing Corey while Bones worked on reviving Matt.
“What kept you?” Bones called over his shoulder as he tended his crewman’s wounded head. “I got so tired of waiting for you I was going to take care of them myself, but then you dragged your tail in at the last minute and played hero.”
“Grateful as always.” Willis rolled his eyes. “I had to wait until they split up and weren’t paying attention. The guy in the bow made it easy for me. I guess he heard me and thought it was a fish because he leaned way over the rail. I grabbed him by the collar, put my knife in his throat, and eased him on into the water.”
“How did you ‘ease’ a two-hundred pound man down from the bow while you were still in the water?”
“I’m good,” Willis replied firmly. He stared at Bones for a moment, and then rolled his eyes. “Maybe there was a splash, but it wasn’t a big one. Got the others the same way.”
Bones was impressed. “Divide and conquer. Not bad for a hired hand.”
“You didn’t warn me this hired hand was going to be a hired gun. My salary demands just skyrocketed.”
“Talk to Maddock,” Bones said. “He’s the boss.”
After tending to their colleagues, Bones and Willis searched Angelo’s body for identification. They were not surprised to find that he was clean. His black jumpsuit was also devoid of identifying marks. The only personal object he carried was a silver necklace that was tucked into his left pocket. Bones held it aloft.
A silver pendant dangled from the chain. It was a crucifix unlike any he had ever seen. In the place of the cross, the Christ figure, his face staring angrily forward, hung from crossed swords.
“Jesus,” Willis whispered.
Bones felt the blood drain from his face. He stared at the object for a moment, then said the one thing that came to his mind.
“Literally.”
Chapter 16
Maddock rapped smartly on the door of the small white cottage. He turned and looked up and down the street. It was a typical pre-World War II neighborhood. The long, narrow thoroughfare was lined with ancient oaks, the roots of some of which were breaking through the sidewalk in places. All of the houses appeared to be in good repair, with neatly trimmed lawns, each bordered by a manicured row of hedge. He should have felt at peace in such surroundings, but he was not. Though he was relieved to have learned that his crew was safe, his senses were on heightened alert. The people who were after them were every bit as dangerous as he had feared. They were well armed, and seemingly had the resources to track their every move.
“Mrs. Russell? My name is Maddock. This is my friend, Kaylin. Ms. Meyers from the library called you about our visit?”
The woman’s face brightened. “Oh, yes. Come in.” She pushed the screen door open wide, and motioned them inside. They settled onto an overstuffed love seat. Their host pulled up a rocking chair in front of them. “I understand you’re doing some genealogical research?”
“Yes,” Kaylin lied. “We’ve found some drawings in an old family book, and were wondering if you might recognize this house.” She held her notebook open for the woman’s inspection.
The old woman leaned forward, her nose nearly touching the page. After a moment, she leaned far back and peered down her nose at the picture. She shook her head.
“No, I fear I have never seen that house. I have been the unofficial town historian for fifty-three years. I know most every old house in town. That does not mean, however” she added, noticing Kaylin lower her head in disappointment, “that it was never here. Quite a few old homes were torn down in the forties and fifties.” She suddenly cocked her head and stared at the page again. “May I see that notebook?”
Kaylin handed it over, and the historian inspected it carefully.
“These other drawings remind me of the Riverbend Cemetery north of town. There is a stream that runs alongside it, an old wrought iron fence in the front, and there used to be a giant oak tree on a hill in the center of it. There is a print of it from the nineteenth century that hangs in the funeral home in town.”
“Is there a covered bridge?” Kaylin asked, her voice raising an octave. She leaned forward and turned to the next page of the notebook, where she had copied a picture of such a bridge.
“Why, yes there is,” Mrs. Russell replied. “I see the gravestone here,” she pointed to the sketch. “Is one of your ancestors buried in this cemetery?”
“That’s what we’re wondering,” Maddock replied hesitantly. “We heard someone dug up a grave there recently.”
“Yes, it was a terrible thing.” She pursed her lips and frowned. “An old drunkard from town said some people hired him to do it. What foolishness.”
“Was the grave anywhere near the spot where the old oak tree used to stand?” Kaylin asked.
The historian cocked an eyebrow as if this were a very odd question. “I do not know for certain. I have a layout of the cemetery in my records. It shows the locations of the plots, and who is buried in each. Perhaps I can help you find your ancestor.”
She led them through a clean but cluttered old house jammed with antique furniture and walls lined with paintings in faux-gilded frames to a room in the back of the house. A stout wooden table stood in the center of the room. The walls were nigh-invisible behind bookcases overflowing with books, file folders, and loose papers of various shapes and sizes. The room was the very antithesis of Maxie’s meticulously organized library.
Despite the chaos, Mrs. Russell had no difficulty finding what she was looking for. She walked over to one of the shelves and withdrew a cardboard tube, from the inside of which she produced a long, rolled paper. She smoothed it out on the table, pinning the corners down with stray books.
The boundaries of the graveyard were marked in bold blue lines. Plots were denoted by faint dotted lines. Each had a name and number written in tiny, precise print. Pathways crisscrossed the entire cemetery.
“Here is where the grave was desecrated.” She pointed a knobby, liver-spotted finger at a spot not far from the cemetery entrance on the south end of the graveyard. “A man named Covilha, I believe. A Spaniard, or some such.” She moved her hand across the page. “Here is where the oak tree stood.” She indicated a point near the center of the graveyard. “And here is the covered bridge.” Her finger drew a line to the northwest.
“Do you have a string, or a ruler?” Maddock asked, struck by a sudden inspiration.
“Certainly.” The old woman exited the room, returning momentarily with an old yardstick which she handed to him.
Maddock grinned and smacked it into the palm of his hand. “Just like Mom used to beat me with.”
“I whipped my son with that very same ruler,” Mrs. Russell replied, a wistful smile on her face. “He still frowns when he sees it.”
Maddock laid the ruler across the map, angled downward from the top left. He then lined it up so that the edge lay across the center of the drawbridge, as well as the spot where the oak tree had grown.
“Would this line cross the wrought iron fence?” he asked.
“It encircles the graveyard, so yes.”
“What would have been up here, outside the cemetery,” he indicated the place where the ruler left the page, “back in, say, the mid-eighteen hundreds?”
“I do not know. I suppose I could check.” She moved quickly to one of the shelves and began browsing through some oversized books.
“What are you thinking?” Kaylin whispered.
“Just a hunch.” He didn’t want to tell her until he was fairly sure he was right.
The historian laid an oversized book on the table, opened it, and flipped to an index in the back. After a moment, she turned to the page she was looking for.
“Here we are. This is from 1860.” She looked at the cemetery map, then back to her book, did a double-take, then checked each again. “This is a strange coincidence. There was a house here that belonged to Francisco Covilha. I believe that is the same person who…” her voice trailed off.
Maddock and Kaylin exchanged excited looks. They were on the right trail. They had to be. Kaylin’s eyes narrowed. Maddock believed he could read her thoughts. If Maddock was correct, and the clues ran in a straight line, they would not lead to Covilha’s grave, but possibly to that of another person.
“Let me check something,” the historian said. She pulled from the shelf a small clothbound book with a tattered cover and paged through the yellowed pages. “This book was written just before the turn of the century. It has pictures of some of the older buildings that were in the town at that time. I didn’t think of it before.” She found the page she sought. “May I see your sketch, please?”
Kaylin showed her the drawing of the house.
“This is it.” She turned the book around to show them what she was looking at. It was a print of the house in the sketch. At the bottom of the page was a single word: “Covilha.”
“Well, that certainly is interesting,” Mrs. Russell continued.
“Now, about the ancestor you’re looking for; I assume his name was Domenic?” She pointed to the name Kaylin had found in one of Covhila’s books.
“Um, that’s right,” Kaylin said.
“Well, let me see. There is a plot with the name Domenic LaRoche right here.” The location she indicated was on the opposite side of the oak tree, in perfect line with the house and covered bridge. “Is that the person you were looking for?” The elderly woman looked at them with a smile that said she was quite pleased with herself.
“That’s him,” Kaylin said, grinning. She clasped the woman’s hand in both of hers. “Mrs. Russell, thank you for your help.”
“You are most welcome.” The woman smiled kindly.
“There’s one other thing,” Kaylin began. “If someone were to come asking about me…”
“Ms. Meyers told me about your situation with that terrible man. I’ll be happy to keep your confidence.”
Maddock added his thanks, and they left the house. As they climbed into the car, Maddock quietly contemplated what they had learned.
“Do you think that’s the answer?” Kaylin asked. “The sword is buried with this Domenic person?”
He turned to face her, his heart racing. “I think we should go to the cemetery, and follow the clues.�
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Chapter 17
They parked on the shoulder of a narrow road that ran between the Burnatches River and a gently sloping hill. Covilha’s home had once sat atop that hill overlooking the Riverbend Cemetery. They crossed the old covered bridge, now open only to pedestrian traffic, passing over the river, and arrived at a wrought iron fence.
“It looks just like the drawing in the book,” Kaylin said, inspecting the fence.
Maddock looked out across the graveyard. It was an old place that carried the evidence of its years in the weather-stained tombstones and eroded statuary. The paint on the fence was chipped. Patches of rust stood out everywhere on its pitted, black surface. Thick patches of clover stood out on the green carpet of grass. There being no gate nearby, he vaulted the fence, and then gave Kaylin a hand up.
They stood in the midst of several old gravestones. Maddock knelt down to inspect the nearest one. It was dated 1841. He looked around.
“Where do you want to start?” he asked Kaylin.
She opened her notebook and looked over the images she had recopied onto one page. She had drawn a rough outline of the cemetery and placed the house, river, bridge, fence, tree, and the name “Domenic” in their proper places. At Maddock’s suggestion, she had sketched in the compass alongside the house. He pointed out that the objects they had located all were directly southeast of the house; the same direction the compass was pointing.
“Let’s orient ourselves with our backs to the house, facing the hill where the oak tree was,” Kaylin said. “We’ll walk straight ahead, and see if we come across anything that might be represented in these other sketches.”
They began their walk, taking care to appear to the casual observer to be a couple on a leisurely stroll to visit the resting place of a family member. Not, Maddock noted, that there seemed to be anyone around. He looked carefully at each headstone they passed. The oldest ones were so eroded that he could not make out anything carved into them. One of the stones, however, drew his attention.